


Like Rain

by Gemma_Inkyboots



Series: Flowers in the Church [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Affirmation, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Bees are awesome, Discussion of egg laying, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, Jazz has over 100 siblings, Jazz needs a hug, M/M, Multi, Nonconsensual Body Modification, Past Mind Control, Prowl needs a hug, Robot Feels, Robot Sex, Sterility, Xeno, dubcon, easily seen as dubious given Prowl's state of out-of-it, fixit, happy endings, imagine those family reunions, it just takes a while and some confusion to get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots/pseuds/Gemma_Inkyboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prow has been betrayed, abandoned, forgotten by everyone he gave his utmost to protect through a too-long war. </p><p>...oh.</p><p>Not everyone after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from 'Like Sunshine' and directly references events in IDW comic canon that I very much do not like and am aiming to fix with - uh, strange alien sex and a fruit basket of kinks. Mentions Bombshell's horrific cerebro-shells and the Devastator incident, and has Prowl not in a very good headspace at all regarding what's been done to his frame and his mind. How he copes with that is rather floaty and not in the best position to give consent, as much as he very much wants what's happening, and addresses the fact that this is a porn'verse and Jazz didn't ask for permission during Prowl's previous heat - hence the dubcon tag just in case. The events here may be confusing, given Prowl's wobbliness, but I'm pretty sure there's a third fic to wrap this up in me and please please ask questions so I can fit in EVEN MORE worldbuilding! :D

The war went on.

Until it didn’t, and the peace it left in its wake brought as many fresh horrors to Cybertron as War ever had.

*

The warehouse district smouldered along the dockside. Newly-built storage units had been smashed into pieces alongside the old, patched and reinforced warehouses that had stood stubbornly through the war now broken open in peacetime. Colossal pedes had left craters in the pitted metal; not since Megatron’s first assault on the Iacon docks had they seen such destruction. The district had long since been abandoned as the fighting moved on, and only one slow, struggling figure was left to pick their way through what remained.

Forgotten, again. Even after this. For all Prowl knew he could have been walking in circles, left behind to wander the ruined docks alone until he fell and couldn’t rise again. No-one had come - Megatron’s last great horror, forcing Prowl under Bombshell’s control until there was nothing left he could hide. They had rebuilt his frame, reinforced him to a weight class to match a dead mech, and broken his processor open - secrets and lies scattered to the wind as they ransacked his files for what they needed, and what of his mind that remained of his own screamed for rescue.

No-one came.

Not even Jazz, and Prowl had almost begun to think-

No-one came.

None of his so-called friends noticed a thing until Bumblebee was led _right to Megatron’s pedes._ Jazz was nowhere to be found, had vanished on a mission that Prowl hadn’t been briefed on, and a tiny part of him was glad that he hadn’t been able to compromise his- cover. Whatever that had been. And apparently no-one else had the processing power to even _notice_ anything was wrong.

Prowl had torn himself away from the merge with all of his strength and pain and rage against the universe, falling from the gestalt’s shoulders, falling into the dark. When he woke, the broken warehouse district was abandoned - he’d been forgotten. Again. Left behind, even his reinforced frame shattered from the fall, and no-one cared. He should have been used to it by now. In war, a tactician was useful - when no-one believed him when he insisted the war had never ended, he was quietly shuffled away, out of sight.

He’d _believed_ Jazz when the mech had promised he’d come back.

Prowl staggered as far as he was able, one heavy, splintering step after another, his frame lagging behind the phantom gestalt limbs that swallowed him up. This body wasn’t his own, his _mind_ wasn’t his own...he may as well have been going in circles. He was broken, broken down to the struts in every way that mattered, and still all he did was put one pede in front of the other in a slow, dogged refusal to lay down and die. His frame couldn’t keep going forever, his world blurring down pixel by pixel into foggy tunnel-vision, and still he lumbered stiff-legged through the detritus of battle as though making it back to Autobot HQ would make everything all right. He would never be all right again.

He barely noticed when his legs finally gave way, dragging against the uneven floor and buckling at last, crashing down onto his knees and all alone. Every vent in Prowl’s frame was throwing out heat, the fans inside him clicking and whirring in mismatched syncopation - he thought briefly of trying to stand and made a brave attempt at sitting up onto his knees. Something _crunched_ as he shifted and pain shot like a lightning strike up his shin - the plating had fractured, splintering into the circuitry underneath, and Prowl fell forwards onto his hands in a reflex-level attempt to save himself from the agony. His palms skidded on broken metal - some of it felt like his own - and the bullbars welded onto his chest crunched into his bumper when he collapsed onto his elbows.

No-one came. No-one would. Prowl huddled there for long moments, trying to ride out the fracturing agony splitting him apart, the noise of his vents and the pound-pound-pound of his sensors firing drowning out all else. 

Until someone hummed to him from an abandoned building, soft and buzzing in Prowl’s audials. 

Prowl crumpled down onto his side amongst what rubble he could use for cover, combat HUD blacking out entirely and his vision pixelating into grey swirls - his fingers wouldn’t curl, and he realised too late that he’d already lost his acid rifle as he groped through an emptied subspace. A pale figure advanced through the rubble, and panic mingled with resignation in Prowl’s spark; he was too far gone to fight and already running on fumes. 

As the world went dark, something faintly, familiarly sweet-smelling followed him down into emergency stasis.

*

It was dark. Dark, and warm, and something was buzzing-humming softly all through his aching frame.

Onlining his optics took a long time, and far too much effort. He wasn’t sure, but Prowl was dimly sure it shouldn’t be so hard to wake up. His optics eventually blurred into something resembling functionality, but that didn’t help - there _was_ a ceiling above him, but it was dim and far away and looked oddly uneven. He didn’t recognise it.

His HUD wouldn’t come online, though it took him even longer to realise it. He squinted, winced as even that small movement pulled on sore tensors, and tried to shift his weight.

Prowl was bound. Helm to pede, he realised slowly and in mounting horror, too weak and damaged to move and wrapped up in something that held him unable to even try. Captured again, and this time his tormentors wanted it to be visible.

He was too exhausted not to cry, optics welling past his attempts to hide it, silent tears blurring his vision and trickling one thin drop at a time down the sides of his helm. A voiceless, invisible prisoner for so long, his processor ravaged and stripped of any control over his own frame, and this too-gentle prison now was too much to bear. They had won - he had nothing left to fight with. Prowl’s fans clicked brokenly, the stuff holding him down dispelling any heat before they could activate and muffling the sound - even the noises of his frame were silenced, and Prowl had gone too long muzzled by duty, by responsibility and then by Bombshell to think of screaming. 

Tiny, hitching noises escaped his vocaliser regardless, hiccups of pure misery he made without conscious intent as muzzy sensors began to reactivate as though from a distance. Prowl had sunk too far into how much everything _hurt_ to hear whisper-light pedefalls coming closer. He couldn’t even turn his head to try and shake the tears away, not without his processor lurching and his tanks threatening to rebel - but someone shushed him gently and a hand stroked his face before he could startle away, and when he managed to boot up his optics again Jazz was there. _Jazz,_ kneeling beside him with a bittersweet smile that Prowl had never seen before, and a full cube of something amber and glimmering that smelled so sweet… Prowl shifted again, optics widening and unable to summon a single word, and then he _remembered_ the smooth-soft stretch of fabric around him and began to cry from relief.

*

Lucidity came briefly, only long enough for Jazz to croon reassurance to him and press the cube to his lips. Prowl drank what he could, his optics flickering from the cube to Jazz’s face until they began to dim - his self-repair was working too hard for his energy to be wasted on consciousness, and he sank back into recharge before he could finish the cube.

Time seemed malleable there, bound up in something finer than steelinen that didn’t block slowly-healing vents - Prowl never seemed able to wake entirely, and the world condensed down to his silky-smooth cocoon and Jazz, always Jazz. His world was soft and drifting and beautiful in its simplicity - sometimes he woke from a recharge too deep for dreams, and Jazz would always be close by to press cubes to his lips and whisper encouragement, to stroke and pet and praise him in a way Prowl had never known before. Sometimes he could only manage to part his lips around the edge of the cube, exhausted down to the struts but too needy to recharge any longer without fuel, and Jazz stroked his throat to help him swallow. A warm, grateful shame thrummed through him every time it happened, that Jazz would take care of something so basic when Prowl was so weak. He found he began to like it, being cosseted and treated as though he were something helpless and beloved, and as he slowly began to regain himself he remembered - a full cube on the corner of his desk, a flower suspended in a tiny stasis field, an invitation to something effortless and kind.

“It was you,” he murmured once, optics heavy and his lips sticky with the rich, sweet fuel. “Wasn’t it?”

Jazz hummed to him as he stroked Prowl’s cheek, a wordless lullaby that his frame would associate forever with _Jazz_ and _sleep now_ and _safe._ “What’s that, babe?”

“You gave me flowers,” Prowl said faintly, and heard Jazz chuckle as though from a long way away.

“I’d give you anything you asked for, gorgeous.”

Something wiped the last fuel from his lips with tender care; a kiss brushed over his chevron, and Prowl fell effortlessly back into a dreamless recharge as Jazz began humming again.

*

Jazz was lying beside him this time. Prowl gradually began staying awake for longer when he woke, optics lingering dark and tired on Jazz’s face and drinking in his pleased smile along with the constant cubes of fuel. This time Jazz was warm and languid at Prowl’s side, and the extra heat from his systems soaked into the fabric holding Prowl together. It felt good, comfortable and dreamlike, as though the war and what happened after had happened to someone else. Jazz’s free hand cradled the back of Prowl’s head as the other held the cube, and Prowl obediently drank it slowly at the other mech’s coaxing.

“You’re doing so good, beautiful,” Jazz crooned, and Prowl’s systems tingled weakly in grateful pleasure. He was doing well, Jazz was happy with him... “You’re amazing. You’re so amazing, you don’t even know.”

Prowl squirmed a little, just enough - he didn’t want to resort to comms, didn’t want to pull away from the rich sweetness of the fuel that felt so good as it filtered into his tanks, and the little movement slid his plating over the teasing, comforting fabric. How could simply existing make him feel so much?

“Can you finish a cube for me, babe? Can you fit a little bit more in there?”

How could he not try, when Jazz wheedled so sweetly and the fuel felt so good against his glossa? One mouthful, then another, and then the cube was empty and Jazz was beaming at him as he held the cube for Prowl to see like a trophy. Prowl swallowed and a rush of euphoria filled him from his tank outwards, like drinking sunlight, like being stroked though his heat; he smiled back at Jazz in sleepy-opticed delight, and when Prowl slept he dreamed of things he’d told himself that he only imagined.

*

As time passed, Prowl gradually became a little more aware of his surroundings. Jazz moved around only a few paces before coming to him when he came online, and was always close enough to pet and soothe him back to recharge if he half-woke from fitful dreams. The fabric wrapping him close was all he could feel, enclosing him in silky protection from his helm down, but sometimes it felt thinner than others, as though someone were lovingly smoothing fresh layers over him as he slept. Before, that would have frightened him and made him angry - now, with the ever-present taste of sweetness on his glossa and with Jazz close by, it made him feel safe and cared-for. There were layers separating his arms from his body, wrapped around each leg and another layer wrapped over it all, and Prowl knew he could relax and not worry about moving. He was snuggled close and cared-for, and Jazz was always near.

Jazz sang to him, his voice a near-constant backdrop to Prowl’s half-light world, but underneath Jazz’s voice Prowl could feel another vibration, one that was always with him and sometimes followed him into recharge. He dreamed, sometimes, of being small and helpless as giant bodies moved around him, moved him in his cocoon, of feeling so safe that it never occurred to him to be afraid. Those dreams soothed him and stayed with him long after he thought he was awake, and he couldn’t remember anymore how long it had been since he had first woken to pain and fear and grief. It all seemed so far away and so long ago.

Slowly he found his words again, humming back to Jazz when Jazz came over to fuel him and playing along when Jazz coaxed him into silly call-and-response games. His voice was hoarse and faltering from disuse, but he hummed and murmured snatches of music back and glowed inside when Jazz smiled at him. He managed more fuel when he woke, now, and Jazz seemed to take such joy in watching him drink - it took time, but when he managed two cubes in one sitting for the first time Jazz rewarded him with a sweet, melting kiss. His tanks were starting to stay even partly full between waking moments at long last, and his self-repair itched as it finally began to reach surface damage after mending shattered struts.

“You’re doing so well,” Jazz sang to him, and Prowl trustingly lifted his chin for his throat to be stroked as he fell into recharge again.

*

“I was born here,” Jazz told him, stroking languidly over Prowl’s belly as they lay together. Chin propped on one hand, Jazz watched Prowl’s face as his optics flickered, casting blue shadows in the soft golden light. “Me an’ my sibs. Grew up tumblin’ around together, ‘n when I got old enough I went off to Cybertron. Wanted to see what the world my carrier’d come from was like. Then things got bad, ‘n I thought I’d stay around til it calmed down enough to leave - then I met you.”

Prowl hummed softly in reply, glossa working the last of the thick fuel from his mouth until he could swallow. This wasn’t the first time they had lain together like this - Jazz with his hand stroking over Prowl’s fabric swathed belly or bumper, feeding him sips of fuel after his first full cube. He knew his tanks were expanding again after being so wrung dry from his self-repair’s efforts, and was perhaps overly proud of being able to empty more than one cube as they talked and getting to watch Jazz’s joy growing, and part of him liked Jazz’s hand resting over his full, warm tank more than he might ordinarily admit.

“It took me a while,” he said softly, and felt warmed from the inside out as though he’d just swallowed more fuel at Jazz’s smile. “But I thought - maybe, for when the war was over, that you might have been courting me.”

Jazz chuckled, then slid his hand around Prowl’s belly in a parting caress - Prowl tried not to whine at the loss - and reached for another cube to hold to Prowl’s lips.

“Never mind waitin’ for the war, I was gonna court you anyway,” he said as Prowl sipped. “Thought I wouldn’t rush you, or push too hard - knew you were special, babe. Just didn’t know how amazin’ you were right off.”

The amber fuel sparked inside him, warming him all over again until he squirmed in the silky embrace of his fabrics. It might have been the fuel, or the tingle of the cloth, but Prowl asked something that he’d been turning over like a treat in his mouth. “Was it you who - I thought I had company in my heat, before...”

“...yeah.” Jazz grinned at him, shy and sheepish, and Prowl’s spark fluttered in its rotation. “‘M sorry I hid. I just - Wow, beautiful, I never even offered but I caught a hint a’ why you were on medical leave from a distance, an’ I just...wow. Like I got triggered on my own heat, ‘n I know that ain’t no excuse for not askin’ permission.”

“You didn’t need an excuse,” Prowl told him, and wondered at what boldness he was drinking in with his fuel. “I wanted you for so long, I wanted for it to be real.”

Jazz offered the cube to him again and Prowl drank obediently, letting out a soft moan of pressure-pleasure through his vents. It felt as though his tank were pressing right up against his armour, his mass finally responding to something of _his_. Then Jazz began to explain, and Prowl swallowed down the whole cube one absorbed mouthful at a time.

Jazz had been born of a meeting of Cybertronian and- one of the others who lived here, a nameless race that populated a quiet, peaceful planet and raised their young in careful stages. Their sparklings were formed in soft, forgiving egg sacs, hidden safely away in a carrier-queen until they were ready to be laid and hatch. They wanted him to hoard their eggs, Jazz told him, after he’d been fed the sweet, thick honey that helped his shattered frame to heal and turned young ones into strong, bearing queens. When Prowl had gone into heat it had triggered something akin to Jazz’s own, but out of his own season Jazz hadn’t had any viable eggs to give Prowl, only packets of rich fuel to fill him up with as an offering to what his systems celebrated as a ripening queen growing into maturity. And when the war had seemingly ended, he had left to ask Them if he could invite Prowl home with him.

“Wanted to explain an’ let you meet my folks before anythin’ got so serious,” Jazz finished, with a nervous smile that seemed to suggest that he really thought Prowl would be angry somehow. “Only I - When I left everythin’ all seemed like it was settlin’ down, an’ when I got back...”

Prowl stared at him transfixed as Jazz, _Jazz_ faltered and lost his words. He couldn’t lift a hand, not wrapped as he was in the sliding, clinging fabric, but he crooned softly the way Jazz had when Prowl woke from a miserable dream. He saw Jazz’s shoulders shake, then Jazz ducked his head and wrapped his arms so carefully, so desperately around Prowl as best he could, and nuzzled his face into Prowl’s belly as his tears soaked into the fabric. 

“I never shoulda left,” he choked. “I never shoulda gone without you, I thought I could trust ‘em with you, ‘m so sorry...”

“...it’s all right,” Prowl said, and for the first time since waking here he believed it. “It’s all right, please don’t cry - you came back. No-one else came back. I thought - I thought I was going to offline all alone, but you- You came back.”

“I ain’t never gonna leave you all alone again,” Jazz promised fiercely, and the thought sent soothing, warming contentment through every system Prowl had.

*

It wasn’t long after that that They came to him, a group of Jazz’s originators. They peered down at him easily, would overshadow even a Prime, but after innumerable wrappings in the fabric Jazz told him his sire had woven within Their own frame, Prowl only felt safe and sheltered as one of Them lifted him in Their gentle front arms to check his injuries. They lifted him out of the cup of soft materials he’d been lain in, cradled him against Their frames and hum-sang to him in a language he didn’t understand, and Prowl laid his cheek against glossy age-worn plating and let Them handle him like a sparkling.

It had been a long time since They had had a young, willing queen, and They treated him as though he were something priceless. Irreplaceable. They stroked his helm and crooned to him, cradled and fed him the honey-fuel they made - a rich jelly They produced to feed their queens, that had kept him alive and fuelled his self-repair, that filled him with the feeling like he was drinking down the sun. They fed him in Their arms until his tanks expanded and then fed him again, and only reluctantly settled him back into the hollow They had chosen for him when Jazz became impatient and grabby to feed Prowl himself.

*

Prowl had been fed until his tanks groaned, his protective armour straining as his tank expanded. After too many long vorn of going underfuelled, of pushing his frame to the limits of safe practise to run just one more simulation, push one more report out of his to-do queue, he couldn’t bring himself to say no when faced with one more cube, and just one more, and just a little mouthful more, for me, beautiful? He shifted, growing more uncomfortable as time passed and his frame healed despite Jazz’s doting on him, the growing tickle of charge running through the fabric making him restless. He kept himself restrained to only shifting about in the soothing-maddening embrace of the fabric wraps, managing to stay awake more than once now when They came to lift him and swaddle him in new material, realising at last that his frame had been absorbing what nutrients the amber honey-fuel didn’t provide from the fabric. Being shifted easily by a being so much bigger than him, being moved like a toy in a sheath was a wonderful distraction, and he could have joyfully stayed in Their arms until he was wrapped up invisible and shapeless under the fabric, but They hummed amusement at him and tucked him back down into the protective hollow to wriggle and try to rub at himself in delicious frustration.

And _none_ of that helped with the growing pressure of inflexible armour against his slowly-expanding tank. He bore it until he couldn’t stand it any longer, wanting just one more mouthful of the cube Jazz had offered him, and with a lot of squirming and ‘helpful’ rubbing from Jazz he managed to work his outer armour loose to let his protoform expand freely. Prowl lay back in his cocoon, breathless and triumphant from the exertion, and only then realised that he had no way of removing the plating from his comfortable sheath without help. Jazz giggled delightedly at his expression, and danced to the edge of the hollow to call to his genitors. They were delighted, scooping him up to somehow work the armour plate loose without ever baring his frame to the air, and rubbed Their front forelegs over the released swell of his belly with crooning approval, kneading him gently through the fabric and making him moan. 

That was as far as Their appreciation went, but Prowl’s repairs were far along enough now that only cosmetic damage was left. Still They kept him wrapped up safe in the stretchy cling of the fabric, and Prowl wondered why until he recognised the growing thrill of charge whispering over his bared protoform, so much more intimate and silky against his inner metal. He arched luxuriously when he woke next, his legs shifting together and tickling with charge - the fabric binding his thighs and hips was _wet,_ and Prowl realised with a start that the plating protecting his valves was long gone, and likely had been removed when he was first wrapped in the glorious silky mesh. 

Remembering now what was coming, his valves rippled lazily in an interest he hadn’t felt in so long. Jazz stayed close, eager and attentive and trembling, and Prowl could see with new optics how his sensor nubs were a baby version of Their antenna horns, his visor like Their gleaming optic bands. Instead of finding it alien, or the thought of future couplings with something so much bigger and stranger than Jazz... The fabric clung and dragged over his nodes as he shifted, and a long, low sigh of appreciation became a needy moan. 

_“Jazz...”_

He was wanted, oh, he was _wanted._ Jazz fed him until his tank groaned, one arm supporting Prowl’s helm as his free hand lifted cube after cube to Prowl’s mouth. Jazz’s glossa licked the sticky sweetness from Prowl’s lips as they parted to let him in, sharing kisses and sharing the taste as Jazz’s gentle, worshipful hands stroked over Prowl’s belly. The fabric parted with a sigh as though waiting for this, only this, and Jazz’s hand circled the mound of Prowl’s taut belly before stroking down to his bared front valve, careful fingers pressing in. He was ready, he had been ready since They had begun feeding him the royal jelly that had repaired him, had changed him, had made him strong and content and sticky-sweet to hold Their eggs and protect them inside his swollen belly. Jazz leaned over him, eager and quivering, and Prowl opened his arms and invited the first of many in.

**Author's Note:**

> I am honestly amazed that people are responding so enthusiastically and positively to 'Like Sunshine'. Wow. Guys. You are all so lovely, I can't even, thank you for every kudos and comment. <3


End file.
